Birthdays
by ACleverName2
Summary: [9Rose]Rose asked a perfectly legitimate question ... Fluff set between Father's Day and The Empty Child.


Birthdays

The Doctor turned a corner in the TARDIS corridors as Rose hurtled into his shoulder, knocking him back a few steps and her onto the floor. "Oof," she commented, her face red. As he reached instinctively to help her up, he noticed that her blonde hair was tied back from her face in a restrictive ponytail, she was wearing trainers and light red-colored track trousers. "What were you running from?" he asked with a grin.

She looked up, fiddling with her hair tie, then dropped her mascara-ed eyelids. "Nothin'. Just running."

He noticed, with some dismay, that she was wearing a hoodie over a white top that left her midriff bare. He'd never seen her dress that way before. "Well, if you were looking for the exercise room, you have to go back down that corridor and turn left after four sets of doors. You can't miss it. There's even a pool."

"Um, thanks," she replied, turning to move in that direction.

"Rose?"

"What?"

"Why exactly were you running?"

She shrugged. "Dunno. Just thought I should get some exercise."

He lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "You run all the time—away from Daleks, Slitheen and a dozen other hostile aliens. It sort of comes with the job description."

"I just thought I needed to get in better shape, tha's all. I'm getting a little on the chubby side, don't you think?"

He frowned. "Is that Jackie talking?"

"What do you mean?"

He crossed his arms, staring her down. "Is that Jackie, telling you that you're too chubby?"

She rolled her eyes. "No, 'course not."

He turned and resumed walking, saying over his shoulder, "Then you must be like most humans in the twenty-first century; completely skewed self-image."

Rose followed suit, jogging down the corridor to keep up. "Doctor, my self-image is fine. I just wanted to get into shape. Is that some kind of a crime where you come from?" He looked back at her sternly. She took a deep breath, realizing she'd dug a little too deep. "Sorry."

He pulled open the door to the control room, bathed in green light. He strode toward the console. He tossed over his shoulder, "Look, you're fine as you are."

She watched him. He was staring at the column, but he wasn't doing anything—if he wanted to fiddle around with the TARDIS he'd be pushing buttons randomly, or taking out the tool box. She stepped inside the control room sheepishly, dragging her foot along the grating, even though she knew he hated it when she did that. "So, does that mean you think I'm all right? Appearance-wise, I mean." She was staring at her shoe, pretending to be indifferent to his response.

He dropped his head slightly. "You certainly don't need to exercise."

She tried not to sound as disappointed as she felt. "Gee, thanks." She stood there, watching the blue pulsating column, watching him watch it. She didn't say a word, hadn't even moved her foot on the metal. Why was she still standing there?

He spun around and looked at her. His brow was furrowed, but not enough to suggest that he was angry. "What? What do you want?"

She played with the inside lining of her hoodie, then looked up, into his eyes. "Doctor, I was just wondering . . ." She shrugged. "When's your birthday?"

"My birthday." He was stone-faced.

"You know, the day you were born." She giggled; she'd never had to explain the meaning behind a birthday before.

"The day I was born."

"Stop repeating me like some bloody parrot!" She unlocked her gaze and moved around the column, looking across at him. "Surely you were born, and had a mother and father, like everyone else." She reconsidered. "Unless you crawled out of some primordial ooze, or someone sneezed and poof! you appeared." He looked back at her, rueful. "Oh, you've got to be jokin'."

"Actually, that's not all that far off."

Which part? The sneezing or the ooze? Her eyes widened—hadn't he mentioned a family on Gallifrey?—but her resentment overpowered her surprise. "But you're not going to tell me about it." It was a firm, cold statement, instead of a question.

And he knew it. "Rose—" He had his hands in the air, as if about to appease her.

"Fine." She walked away, tossing her hair, about to leave the room. She stopped. "You're nine hundred years old—I bet you can't even remember being a kid."

"Can too."

"Oh yeah?" She raised an eyebrow, this time expressing genuine interest. "Like what?"

What could he tell her? How could she even ask? "It's—it would be too complicated to even begin to describe to you . . ."

"My stupid ape brain, is it?" She waited for him to get angry. Instead, he looked at her, and she was amazed at how she could read him sometimes. His eyes could be so human, expressing emotions like pain and regret. She had to tell herself that he was different, that he wasn't . . . It still made her feel bad. "Sorry."

And at the drop of a hat, he could become inscrutable again. He was pacing, looking neither upset nor pleased. She wanted him to tell her everything, and she knew that he wouldn't. She was surprised when he began speaking at all. "I remember the fragrant breezes one summer when I was out in the country with my godparents." She hardly breathed. He was talking about his home, his planet that didn't exist anymore. She watched him, hardly blinking. He caught her gaze and held it. What did he feel, to be saying it? Relieved? Or was she only bringing buried pain to the surface, in a way that was harmful? Was she merely satisfying her own desires, or did she really expect this to help him? "There was a beautiful show of comets and meteors going on in a far-off galaxy, and we had all gathered to watch it." He was speaking faster now, less self-consciously. "We started eating pink gazelebedees off the vine—"

"Gazelebedes . . ." She whispered, almost unaware she had said anything. He looked down, and she realized she had lost her chance. Instead of frustration, she felt her whole body slacken. Maybe it was right this way. Maybe there _should _be a limit to what she should know. She moved forward to offer her hand, just some form of contact to tell him it was okay.

"Rose, you're nineteen, right?" He spoke abruptly, and his voice had lost its dreamy quality. He was addressing her in specific tones.

"Yes . . ."

"Imagine this. Long ago, I was comforting a young girl. She was sixteen." He swallowed, his face clouding. "She had just seen her family killed by the Daleks."

"Tha's awful." She said it, and she meant it. Thrills of pain and devastation filled her when she considered what she would do if—if her mother—were— She didn't want to even imagine that. She shook herself and concentrated on what the Doctor was saying.

"Yes." She had the impression that his voice was tinged with emotion, but sometimes she wasn't certain. She waited patiently. "I told her that . . ." He looked at her fully. "That I keep the people I love in my mind; they sleep in my memory." She exhaled. "And that's where they've got to stay." He was firm, but his look was sad. She wanted more than ever to reach out. But she stayed where she was. She couldn't be emotional—he'd only chide her for it. She could be strong, too—she might just be a human, but she wasn't dumb.

"Okay. I understand." Her voice did not tremble.

"Do you?" he asked, and she felt certain he did not expect a reply. He returned to looking at the console. She began to walk out, in earnest, when he said, "When is your birthday?"

She sighed, and the corner of her mouth curved into a smile. "Well, according to my watch . . ." She shook it at him helpfully. Then she bit her lower lip. "Tomorrow."

He looked up at her, half-scolding, half-delighted. "Why didn't you say something?"

She smiled, genuinely. "Well, it's not really important—not on a cosmic scale, surely."

He worked his jaw, frowning. "Do you and your mum celebrate your birthday?"

"Yeah, of course." Her voice filled with warmth as she recalled shopping sprees, nights out on the town, and Mickey being lovely . . . quite lovely. But that was so far removed from what she'd seen. How much significance did Rose Tyler have? She'd learned a lot about time mechanics, having just watched her dad die in front of her (twice), but little could convince her that her life was on the same level as the Doctor's. It was absurd of her to have expected him to care. "But I guess there really isn't anything to celebrate."

He shook his head, clearly doubting her. "You don't really believe that."

She smiled, laughing at herself. "No, I guess I don't." She spoke tentatively. "I want to believe that I'm important, that I matter."

"Of course you matter." He had stopped fiddling around with the console and had placed his hand on her shoulder. She liked it there. She liked when he held her hand, making her feel more corporeal. But she didn't want him to feel sorry for her.

She moved awkwardly underneath his hand. "I didn't want a big fuss made, I just . . . wanted you to know." He smiled at her.

"Is there something you'll be wanting in the way of gifts?"

She blinked and stared hard at him. Was he making fun of her? Surely the gift-giving ritual was cultural and insular? "Are you serious?"

"Yep." He grinned. "Though I can't say I've had much practice givin' gifts, but I can certainly try."

Her face lit up, despite her trying to remain cool and composed, and she returned the grin. She looked down and played with the pocket of her trousers. "You know, Doctor, I've already got the greatest gift that you could give me."

"What's that?"

She took the TARDIS key out of her pocket and dangled it. He nodded. "You know, you're absolutely right." She put the key back, patting her pocket with a smile. "Twenty human years. You're getting to be quite old."

"Am not! I haven't quite reached nine-hundred-somefink, after all—"

"Hey, no age jokes." He looked at the TARDIS panels and ratcheted a switch. "Okay, birthday girl. Where to now?"

She bit her lip, rolling her eyes upwards in thought. "Um, let me get changed and then we'll talk."

He grinned long after she had left the room.


End file.
